


rifleman's creed

by asolitarygrape



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 19:39:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5304293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asolitarygrape/pseuds/asolitarygrape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That is my captain, there are many like him but this one is mine! My captain is my best friend! He is my life!</p>
            </blockquote>





	rifleman's creed

It startled him. A moment prior he had been lost in black swirls of the cosmos, entertaining some sort of ethereal bullshit metaphor, and then ripped back into consciousness. The weight of the blanket ghosting over his shoulder, the soft sounds of Steve's over pronounced attempt to be quiet. His eyes shot open just as the blanket fell and his body went rigid. The blonde gushed apologies out of his pores but the words didn't register.

Bucky had been unconscious, but it was different from that somehow. Rather than the protocol of action and sleep or of stasis, he had been sitting in an apartment speaking to Steve--who he still needed to correct from calling 'target'. And then he had been gone. The world had blotted out. He hadn't even noticed.

It seemed too easy. And in the 20 seconds Steve had yammered out some apology for waking him, Bucky Barnes sat in disquiet trying to figure out if he was ill. If he'd been hurt. If there was some logical explanation.

There'd been a period over the past few months where he'd been dreaming regularly. When he would finish surveillance of his current hiding place, after he'd set every last trap and trip wire, he'd be comfortable enough to sleep a few hours. And in that span more and more memories and fragments of information had flooded his head. He would need to parse them out when he woke, increasingly disoriented. Which naturally led to more trip wires, less and less populated areas, more and more precautions.

Steve gave a weak smile, moving away gingerly, wary that all of this was a trick. That Bucky remembered nothing, had memorized details from tv specials and museums, that all of this was a cruel illusion.

They were speaking too much in expressions. Bucky forced himself to break the string of wanton sorrys. He shifted on the couch drawing out an eloquent, "I fell asleep."

"You ok?" Steve prompted. It was the first foray either had taken into a personal conversation. It was dangerously close to some emotional vein that Bucky could either deny or split open.

"I'm not sure," Bucky swallowed. He shifted to his elbows as Steve moved around the couch to reach for something. "Stevie?"

The blonde caught his breath on a laugh, "Haven't heard that lately."

Bucky interpreted this as a good reaction. "This is real?"

Steve repositioned himself, sitting in line of sight on the floor, "Yeah, Buck."

The silence seemed to be pulling on Steve's features, feeling some sort of obligation to move at Bucky's pace, match Bucky's willingness. Bucky crawled under his skin, just as he would have seventy years ago. He itched to scratch at Steve's face to avoid the awkward pauses. 

"Sometimes I get stuck thinking I'm somewhere else," Bucky meant it as an apology, not a confession or plea for attention. He cringed as Steve's face contorted.

"I do that," Steve offered a few seconds late. His voice was too heavy, as if a few thousand other words had built up before the dam broke.

Bucky exhaled, "Beer? I feel like we need alcohol."

Steve jumped to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he stumbled toward the kitchen, "Someone gave me scotch."

"Like, several cases?" Bucky moved to sitting. "Otherwise that seems inconsiderate."

Steve laughed but never answered. He returned with a bottle and glass. Bucky perked, this was familiar. Steve again positioned himself on the floor, always conscious of any indirects he sent out, showing submission enough not to rouse any ussr programming he privately feared. He poured a glass, some amber liquid sloshing out, and then extended a hand with the opened bottle.

Bucky didn't flinch, didn't question, but took the bottle in agreement. Steve had never been one to drink, not in any quantity that mattered as far as most servicemen were concerned. Bucky had had differing experiences.

Steve didn't flinch in drinking it, and Bucky remembered having one time wondered if Steve could really taste it at all.

Steve always had a way of down playing his power, but none was more impressive than his now limitless iron stomach. It was a far cry from being skin and bones and hungry and sick. Bucky remembered wondering if he was still hungry. If he'd always be hungry.

Then, as now, Bucky lacked all finesse in drinking. He understood, this is my glass. Today and seventy years ago, this glass is mine.

The pageantry of sobriety was something Bucky never cared for. He assumed Steve must know by now that he wasn't drunk any of those times in Italy or Germany; that he'd been as stone sober as Steve after Zola's serum....But dropping the act, playing the part of the drunk was so appealing. It gave rise to all sorts of things he would not have otherwise said or done.

Then, as now, Steve had handed over the bottle. It was practically a request.

This is my glass, Bucky thought, there are many like it but this one is mine. My glass is my best friend, he looked warily up at Steve. It is my life.

Steve seemed expectant and Bucky relaxed. He worried, some gnawing sensation behind his ears and eyes that he was not, could not, be genuine. Could not be Bucky Barnes. But he knew Bucky Barnes, whatever his thinking, would act as calm as could be. Would drink without thinking, and pretty soon talk without thinking.

He smirked at Steve because he thought it was what Steve wanted.

"So," Bucky sneered a few pulls later, "someone calls this a gift?"

"Supposed to be expensive." Steve was looking skeptically at his own glass. He grimaced in agreement with Bucky.

"Real gift would have been more of it." Bucky sighed.

"Thought that counts," Steve weighed. "I mean, it's not like it'll do anything to me."

To you, Bucky thought. He ruminated on it. On things he'd said and done before with the excuses that he no longer had. And his mind kept burning that Steve knew now too.

Bucky had one night done the whole rifleman's creed, in several renditions, changing out all the words. He'd stood on a table in a bar in Warsaw and he'd looked Steve in the eye. It is my best friend, it is my life. And he'd stumbled off of the table, pulled sloppily down by Steve hushing him, trying to pull his limbs in and force him quiet. I must master it as I master my life.

It had been one of the first whole memories. Something after the bridge that had been echoing in his head. He remembered it more clearly than he remembered Steve at first.

That is my captain, there are many like him but this one is mine! My captain is my best friend! He is my life! I must master this as I master my life! My captain, without me, is useless! Without my captain, I am useless!

Steve had finally shouted in his face and he had just laughed. Steve had gotten red all the way down his collar and dragged Bucky off to shout at him properly, without the bar in view.

Bucky looked up from the scotch, settling the bottle down on a side table. "I'm tired," he admitted, his vision fuzzing at the edges. Steve have a curt nod and began to stand, reaching for the bottle as he took his own glass away.

Bucky caught his hand. "Leave it."

They stood frozen a moment, Bucky's hand still clasping at Steve's wrist. The blonde had gone a muted pink color, searching Bucky for an expression that didn't belong to the soldier. Not anymore.

Steve had shouted at him in the alley. He didn't care if half of Poland heard, apparently, just not the bar. And Bucky had played dumb, and numb, and wasted. And he had been drunk in his own way, and his blood had been in his ears when he shoved Steve back against a wall.

Steve pulled his hand away, slowly, "You can sleep in my bed. When was the last time you actually slept in a bed?"

Bucky thought about it and shrugged. He'd done away with that sort of luxury. He slept where he could, where he knew he was safe, after he'd taken the time to ensure it. But that seemed suddenly unnecessary with Steve.

Bucky pushed himself to his feet, pooling the blanket back onto the couch behind him. Steve was too close, he assessed, but his brain was slow and tired and he'd drank enough to know how his breath smelled. Steve nudged his head indicating direction and Bucky followed.

Collapsing into the mattress Bucky stared at the ceiling, wondering how often Steve looked up at it. Steve rummaged in his closet in silence, and Bucky was left to think about the taste of scotch and shoving Steve back against a wall. Showing off that he was strong without giving himself away. Even from Steve he had been so careful. So worried he would be found. And Steve had bounced his head back against the wall and looked at Buck so sore and his eyes just nearly watering. And he'd said such angry things, to set clear why his eyes were watering and not that Bucky had or could hurt him. But Bucky had no finesse with drinking, and he'd stopped Steve's mouth and lingered there. He'd tasted like scotch and he'd moaned his name like a sin.

"Buck?"

Bucky pulled himself out of the thought to see Steve standing in the light of the hallway like a half dressed angel.

"Can I ask you somethin?" Steve sounded so small. That voice had never been so small coming out of that thin chest. And Bucky had never once thought he was small before. Maybe it was the light, or the sleepiness.

"Stevie?" Bucky's voice was already thick and he felt like he moved slow. Steve approached him cautiously, like a stranger, until he sat on the edge of his own bed chewing at his lip.

"You said you remember me?" Steve pressed on quietly.

Bucky hesitated, "Yeah? I remember you."

Steve gave a sharp nod, eyes on the floor between his feet. He didn't budge and Bucky slowly forced focus back into his mind, sitting up beside him.

"My mom," Steve muttered. Bucky was still. "Used to say between us we... I haven't...been me."

Bucky looked at the floor when Steve said, "I don't know if I can be."

"What?" Bucky's voice dropped. Whatever emotion had started at him was dead in it's tracks.

"I don't know if I can be Steve Rogers anymore."

Something cracked. Bucky laughed. Bucky laughed enough his chest hurt, his ribs ached, he fell back on the bed and covered his face. Bucky laughed until he could not breathe and gasped and scratched at nothing.

Steve turned bright red, snarling, "I'm being serious!"

Bucky shook his head, grinning, still gasping.

"Asshole." Steve grumbled. 

He pulled the blonde down onto the bed, giggling and spasming. "Oh darlin'. I don't think you have anything to worry about."


End file.
